


What a Picture We Must Make

by maguuma_blues



Series: one step at a time (aka melancholy Jaskier.) [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Light Angst, M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:40:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22457353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maguuma_blues/pseuds/maguuma_blues
Summary: There’s something wrong with him, Jaskier notices one evening. It takes a few moments to register, for something to click in his brain, that the melancholy feeling he thought would disappear in a matter of hours, has refused to go away. It sticks to his ribs like a hearty meal, its claws gripping at the bones in his chest, like some kind of feral animal that has no intention of letting go.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: one step at a time (aka melancholy Jaskier.) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620511
Comments: 21
Kudos: 625





	What a Picture We Must Make

**Author's Note:**

> Hello ! I wasn't planning on posting this, cause I haven't written in,,, such a long time. This was a bit of a vent for me, and I've been hesitant, but I received some lovely encouragement from my bestfriend, so here we are.

There’s something wrong with him, Jaskier notices one evening. It takes a few moments to register, for something to click in his brain, that the melancholy feeling he thought would disappear in a matter of hours, has refused to go away. It sticks to his ribs like a hearty meal, its claws gripping at the bones in his chest, like some kind of feral animal that has no intention of letting go.

He merely shakes it off, at first, glancing at Geralt briefly. The witcher is currently roasting a hare that he found for their supper, and he must feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, no matter how quick of a glance, but he doesn’t say anything. So Jaskier pushes it aside.

And it’s easy to ignore, at first, until it persists when he tries to sleep. You see, something smells off about his own skin. And you might be thinking, well that should be more of Geralt’s line of thought, with all his witchery prowess and heightened senses, but if the man has noticed anything off about Jaskier, he has yet to comment on it. In fact, Geralt seems to be sleeping soundly, completely unaware of the inner turmoil that is wracking Jaskier’s brain. 

It’s his hands, you see, that’s where his skin smells the strangest. They smell off, sick, wrong, unnatural, almost. And for some reason, it’s all he can focus on, this strange smell that seems to permeate around him and cause him disquiet in the deep of night, forcing him to think on things that he’d much rather leave in the past. The less said about that, the better. 

The smell, though, it’s just _there_ whenever he breathes in, unpleasant, and sure, they had been travelling for a long while, but it wasn’t very hot today, and Jaskier can’t even chalk it up to normal sweat.

So there he lies, staring out at the trees surrounding them, listening to the crackling of the fire, and the sounds of life that naturally come with a forest, until his travel companion breaks the silence. 

“You’re not going to get much sleep with your eyes open.” Geralt says mildly, startling Jaskier.

“I thought you were asleep.” he says. 

“I was.” Geralt doesn’t elaborate on that. “You’ve been quiet all night.” It isn’t framed as a question, but Jaskier hears the silent _what’s wrong?_ regardless. 

“I feel a bit strange.” the bard offers. “It’s all I can think about.” Not a total lie, but not the complete truth. _There’s an ache in my chest that I just can’t seem to shake, Geralt, it’s been so long since I’ve felt this way, and it scares me._ He doesn’t dare say that. 

“Hmm.” Geralt hums gently. “What’s on your mind?” he asks after awhile, when the silence had fallen again, covering both of them like a blanket.

“Is that a note of concern I hear, witcher?” Jaskier asks teasingly. 

“No.” 

“Then why do you ask?” 

“Because even your silence is deafening, bard, and I can’t sleep with you thinking so loudly.” Geralt grumbles, and for some reason, Jaskier smiles a little at that. “So what’s on your mind?” 

“My hands smell different.” 

“...Your hands smell different.” The exasperation is palpable. “This is why you can’t sleep?” 

_No. Not entirely. Not even the half of it._ Jaskier thinks. “Yes.” he says instead. Geralt lets out the most drawn out sigh Jaskier thinks he’s ever heard, and for a second, he thinks he’s won. 

“Why are you lying to me?” 

He has, clearly, not won. _“What?”_

“You’re lying. Why?” 

“I —” _Because I don’t want to trouble you further, I don’t want to add to your burdens, have you finally get fed up with me and leave in the morning without waking me._ He says none of this, and the two sit in silence once more. 

“I can’t read your mind, Jaskier.” 

The bard lets out a little huff of laughter. “I can’t tell if that gift would help or hinder the both of us if that was the case.” he fidgets for a few seconds, pondering how to respond. “I’ve just been feeling… rather melancholy as of late, stuck feeling a little malaise. I can’t seem to shake it. Nothing to concern yourself over.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Yes, yes, I know. But you _are_ asking me what’s wrong in the dead of night, and you have to admit, that sounds a bit like something a concerned friend would —” 

“We’re not friends.” There’s no malice in the statement, no anger, but it makes his chest ache all the more. Briefly, he wonders why he’s even still here. _Because you’re a lovesick fool._ His mind supplies him. Right. That would be it. 

Jaskier rolls over, so that his back is facing the witcher. 

“Jaskier —” Geralt starts. 

“Goodnight, Geralt.” he cuts him off, and the words taste like ash in his mouth. He falls into an uneasy sleep. 

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t know how long he slept for, but he knows it wasn’t restful in the slightest. The pain in his chest seems to have grown, almost like he has a bruise over his heart. Something could definitely be said about that, but he keeps his mouth shut as Geralt rises and starts packing, getting ready for another day on the road. He can still smell that strange scent around him, the one that seems to embody sickness, and he can’t help but feel disgusted.

It’s hard to get up. He feels shaky all over, almost like he’s sick, and his chest _aches_ , and he feels like he got no sleep at all _._ He wants nothing more than to stay on the ground, let Geralt leave without him while he mopes and wallows in pure melancholy. 

Geralt has other plans, however, and Jaskier feels a hand shake his shoulder. “Get up, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier looks up at him miserably for a few seconds, Geralt’s face unreadable, before he shakes off his hand, masks his face, and stands before he can do something stupid like lean into his touch. He hopes his trembling isn’t too noticeable, but knowing Geralt, it is and the witcher has chosen not to comment on it. A small kindness, Jaskier supposes.

“Getting a move on, bright and early? I guess it was too much to hope for that we could sleep for another hour —” 

“What’s wrong with you?” Geralt asks abruptly. 

If Jaskier is being honest with himself, he didn’t think that Geralt would bring anything up. He didn’t think he would even acknowledge their conversation last night, and he can’t tell if he would have preferred that to whatever this exchange is about to turn into. 

“Nothing to concern yourself with.” He says again, pushing past Geralt, desperately trying not to let any bitterness color his voice. “Let’s go?” 

But Geralt doesn’t move, he stays in the same place Jaskier left him, studying the bard in what seems like earnest. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.” 

This one, tiny, ultimately confusing sentence is the metaphorical straw that breaks the camel’s back, and Jaskier can’t help his outburst. “And what do _you_ care?!” he rounds on Geralt, “You said it clearly yourself, have said it a _myriad_ of times and trust me, I _remember_ , that we’re _not_ friends. So who are you to ask me what’s wrong —” 

“Jaskier —” 

“To stop us from just going along on our merry way, acting like you _care —_” 

_“ Jaskier —”_

Jaskier isn’t sure when it happened, but suddenly Geralt is in his space, a step forward for every step Jaskier takes back, until his back is against a tree and his hands are being held firmly, if not gently. And suddenly, Jaskier has the overwhelming urge to start crying, but damn him if he’ll let the tears gathering in his eyes fall. 

“Damn you, Geralt. _Damn you.”_ he says as the tears fall anyway, and Jaskier turns his head away, closes his eyes, feeling very much like an overdramatic maiden in distress. He knows he’ll be embarrassed about this outburst much later, when logic kicks in and helpfully informs him that most of the hurtful things Geralt says is posturing, and that if he didn’t want Jaskier to be around, he very well wouldn’t be. However, it’s not later, and Jaskier is exhausted, and beyond mere melancholy and malaise, beyond any rational thought. 

A hand cups his cheek, stroking a traitorous tear away with a gentle thumb. “I’m sorry.” Geralt rumbles, and the apology comes from seemingly nowhere, and Jaskier’s eyes open involuntarily from the shock of it all. 

Geralt almost looks properly contrite, gaze soft, and Jaskier can’t help but lean into the hand on his cheek, letting out a miserable laugh at the incredulous situation. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Geralt, I’m surprised that you’re even _capable_ of —” 

“Jaskier…” it comes out as an exasperated sigh, and Geralt leans his forehead against the bard’s, and all thoughts end with the gesture. Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut against his own will, until suddenly he’s pushing Geralt away, and shaking his head. 

“I don’t want your pity, Geralt, if that’s all this is —” 

“It’s not.” Geralt grabs his hands again, gently, like he’s afraid he’ll break him. The entire notion seems ridiculous, but Jaskier stills all the same. 

“I —” 

Geralt hushes him with a soft press of his lips to Jaskier’s, and the only thing the bard can think about is what a picture they must make, the slight breeze rustling the leaves, as sunlight streams in through the trees around them. Geralt leaning down, both of Jaskier’s hands in his as he kisses him, feather-light, like he’s going to run away any second. It’s the most chaste kiss he’s had in a long time, and yet it leaves him breathless, heart racing, and he pulls his hands from Geralt’s grasp to cup his cheeks instead, the witcher’s hands going to rest on his waist. 

When Geralt finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far, he merely rests his forehead against Jaskier’s once again and lets out a sigh. And things aren’t fixed, not in the slightest, but it feels like a start. And the ache is still in his chest, but it seems to have loosened just a bit. 

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to post some of the songs I listened to while writing this, but I don't know how links work, so I apologize. I hope you enjoyed, thank you for reading. :)


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